


Sticky Fingers, Sticky Sheets

by LeviSqueaks, MistressPandora



Category: Lord John Series - Diana Gabaldon, Outlander & Related Fandoms
Genre: Anal Sex, Harry Quarry's Horrific Erotic Poetry, Lord John's Accidental Kleptomania, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:28:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23819902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeviSqueaks/pseuds/LeviSqueaks, https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressPandora/pseuds/MistressPandora
Summary: It had been years ofwanting.Carefully contained desire set loose at last by the right circumstances, a moderate supply of good brandy, and a healthy dose of thrilling recklessness.
Relationships: Tom Byrd/Lord John Grey
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29
Collections: Outlander Bingo Challenge





	Sticky Fingers, Sticky Sheets

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nara_stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nara_stories/gifts).



> For the record, I cannot write poetry. At all. Not even a little. After scouring the dregs of the internet for inspiration (and stumbling upon some truly disturbing shit), I asked LeviSqueaks to do me a solid. Credit for the verse (and quippy title) belongs entirely to him. Thank you for pulling my hide of that pit, Levi Love.
> 
> This fills my Outlander Bingo 2020 square: **Bed Sharing**
> 
> And of course, special thanks to [Nara_Stories](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nara_stories/pseuds/Nara_stories) for the plot bunny. HAPPY BIRTHDAY, NARA!

Lord John Grey decided that the absolute worst part of being a lieutenant colonel in His Majesty’s Army was the meetings. He had attended more than his fair share of meetings as a major, of course. There had been regular meetings with the other commanders in Hal’s regiment, in which Grey’s primary concern had been matters pertaining particularly to his own men. And occasionally, his brother would drag Grey along with him to some colonels’ meeting of greater than moderate importance in order to make use of Grey’s particular skill at reading a room. Once in a while, Hal would send Major Grey in his stead entirely, to those meetings of such little threat or value that Grey need not pay attention past roll call. But as a lieutenant colonel, the meetings were _endless_ . And what was worse, he had to be an _active participant_ in _all_ of them.

After extensive research conducted over the course of three grueling days, Lieutenant Colonel Grey had found irrefutable evidence that some colonels might actually _die_ if they did not have the last word in the conversation. All three of those days had begun with breakfast meetings at the truly disrespectful hour of seven o’clock in the blessed morning and continued through luncheon, tea, and supper, concluding no earlier than a disreputable half-ten each evening. 

It was some time after eleven on the third night that Grey staggered into his rooms, aching in every possible muscle and bone. He’d had to stand through most of the day, with nothing but the incessant yammering of the same seven pompous arses to occupy his mind.

Tom Byrd, already dressed down to his shirt and breeches, was waiting for him and rose from his seat near the hearth when Grey opened the door. “ _There_ you are, me lord. I thought as I would have to come stage a coup and rescue you if you didn’t come home soon.” Tom, bless him, had built up a welcoming fire and arranged a tray of almond biscuits. And a very full bottle of good brandy. He poured a generous glass of this and brought it hastily to Grey.

“Thank you, Tom,” Grey said, meaning it most sincerely. He lifted the glass to his lips and drained half of it immediately.

“You look like you’re about to collapse. Come sit down, me lord.” Tom took Grey’s arm and led him to the pair of plush wingback chairs near the hearth. The gesture was endearing, if rather unnecessary. The toe of Grey’s boot caught the edge of the hearth rug and he pitched forward, saved from a smashed skull by the firm grip of his faithful valet. Alright, perhaps it was _a little_ necessary.

With Grey safely positioned in front of the warm chair, Tom helped him ease his red unifrom coat from his shoulders. His valet eyed the coat quizzically, hefting it a few times as if estimating its weight, muffled rattling and clanking sounds coming from its depths. “What in the…” Tom reached into one pocket and extracted a battered snuffbox. His valet examined it, bewildered. “This isn’t yours, me lord. Where’d you pick it up?”

Grey blinked at the item, easing himself down into the chair with a grateful groan. “I haven’t the faintest idea,” he answered, and finished his glass of brandy. He winced as he leaned across the side table for the decanter to refill his glass. His habit of picking up objects and fiddling with them while he conversed--or listened to windbags drone on, as it were--was becoming common knowledge among the senior officers in Hal’s regiment, and a growing source of inconvenience for his valet.

“What about this meritorious service medal?”

Grey took another long, bracing pull of his newly refilled glass and leaned back in his chair with a heavy sigh. “Nor that. Probably purchased or inherited anyway.”

The rattling continued as Tom went about rifling Grey’s pockets. “A penknife. _Another_ ring. A glass chess piece, a knight this time. Just a few more pawns and you’ll have a full mismatched set, me lord.”

That made Grey laugh. “You might be right about that, Tom.” The brandy and the fire warmed him into a pleasantly mellow state, the throbbing pain in his exhausted feet beginning to subside.

“There’s plenty more where that came from,” Tom muttered. “Three, no, _seven_ playing cards. A spent musket ball. A cannon fuse. Is this a jaw screw?” He squinted at a bit of threaded metal with one sheered end.

“Well, yes. But it’s broken,” Grey added, feeling defensive.

Tom made a disapproving humming sound, deposited the handful of bric a brac onto the table next to the biscuits and plunged back into Grey’s coat. With a silver ringing sound, he excavated a tiny bell, sighed and muffled it in his fist, and kept going. “A bit of chain. A journal?”

Grey looked up sharply at that. “Whose? Can you tell?”

His valet shot him a reproving look. “How should I know, me lord? You’re the one as what stole it.”

“May I have it, please?” Grey held out his hand and Tom deposited the book on his palm with a narrow eye.

“You’ll be court-martialed for your habitual thieving one of these days, you know that?”

“Possibly,” Grey admitted, setting down his once again empty glass and thumbing open the journal. He laughed with delight. “It’s Quarry’s,” he declared, grinning. “Even if I didn’t recognize his hand, I’d know this awful verse anywhere. Oh, I’m keeping this.” Grey refilled his glass from the brandy bottle. His head was beginning to swim and between the spirit and the deep exhaustion, Grey felt rather giddy.

“You shouldn’t read that, me lord,” Tom scolded. “It’s Colonel Quarry’s private property.”

“Yes, it was, but now it’s mine, isn’t it?” Grey flipped to a page at random and squinted at it as he brought his brandy glass to his lips. He nearly spit the drink right back out again, forcing himself to swallow before he burst out laughing, the brandy burning its way down his throat.

Tom clapped him helpfully on the back and plucked the glass from Grey’s unsteady hand. “I think you’ve had enough of that, me lord.” He drank it himself in several deep gulps.

“Oh Christ, Tom, listen to this:

_Your flower blooms before me 'ere the dusk of eve  
_ _Misting in its prime as a babbling brook to a Steed  
_ _Hence I dost question wherefore thou keep from spreading  
_ _Thy womb quivers in unquenching need.”_

“It’s… so bloody awful that it’s almost brilliant!” Grey dissolved into peels of laughter, reaching absently to the table for his glass. Not finding it, of course, he waved off as inconsequential and returned his attention to the book.

Tom stared down at him from over the rim of Grey’s brandy glass, cheeks aflame. Eventually, Grey’s laugh became infectious, and Tom let out a chuckle and set down the now-empty glass. “I can’t say as I know much about poetry, but even I can tell that’s horrific.” He squatted at Grey’s feet and pulled his boots off for him, setting them neatly aside. 

“No, no, there’s more! Oh, this is too good,” Grey said, breathing deep to pull himself together. 

_“The ripe succulent juices you secrete drive me to passion  
__I am overtaken with greed, staff rigid with compassion_  
_Thou have taken me, fool with thy gamely wiles  
__and snared my rod complete, a comely Kraken.”_

They both laughed at that, Tom resting an arm casually on Grey’s knee. Grey noticed the light blush that made its way prettily across Tom’s cheeks. As terrible as it was, Tom was affected by Quarry’s horrendous verse. Or, perhaps something else.

“Here,” Tom said. “Let me at those waistcoat buttons, me lord.” 

Grey composed himself--mostly--and rested his arms on the chair to give Tom access. His valet knelt between Grey’s legs, dexterous hands working the buttons near Grey’s throat. Tom was a warm presence between his thighs and Grey’s breath caught in his throat.

Tom made his way down John’s waistcoat and Grey watched him, Tom’s hazel eyes focused on his task, though Grey caught the bob of his Adam's apple as his valet swallowed hard. He suppressed a smirk and let Tom work. Tom reached the level of Grey’s waistcoat pockets, felt them, and frowned. “This is not just your pocket watch, me lord.” His fingers dipped into Grey’s waistcoat pocket and extracted a small figure. Tom examined the item, blanching. It was carved from ivory, a miniature fertility god of some unknown origin, its disproportionately large prick protruding at a scandalous angle. He didn’t comment on the thing, but set it aside in the pile of other stolen goods.

With a cluck of his tongue, Tom shook his head. “Do you know the trouble I have to go through to return the things you lift? It’s a good thing I’ve made friends with all the other colonels’ servants. They’ll lock you in the Tower one of these days, they will.”

“Your concern is noted, appreciated, and endearing, Tom,” Grey said.

Tom guided him to lean forward so he could slide Grey’s waistcoat off his shoulders. He laid the garment on the other chair, and started untying John’s stock without asking. He still sat on his knees between Grey’s legs, a solid weight against both of his inner thighs.

On a wild impulse, Grey ran his fingers through the young man’s hair. The quantity of brandy mingled with his exhausted state prevailed over his better judgement. “Is there something I can do for you, Tom?”

His valet froze for an instant, then reanimated and slowly pulled the cloth away, freeing Grey’s throat. “Me lord?”

Grey leaned forward, bringing his lips so close to Tom’s ear that his warm breath drew shivers from the young man. “Would you share my bed, Tom?” He glided his teeth lightly over the shell of Tom’s ear. “You may of course refuse without fear of reprisal and we’ll never speak of it again. But if I’m right, then you want it too. Am I right?”

Tom shivered, a delicious wave of sensation against Grey’s legs. He nodded. “Yes, me lord. I do,” he said, voice wavering but earnest. “Want it, I mean.”

“Hmm. That makes me happy, Tom,” Grey said, dipping his head to plant a trail of kisses behind Tom’s ear and down his neck. Pulling away, he took Tom’s chin in one hand and looked him in the eye. “You will tell me if anything makes you uncomfortable. Agreed?”

Tom nodded. “Yes, me lord. I will. Cross me heart.”

Grey smiled down at him. “Very good.” Tom came to him, lurching forward and claiming Grey’s lips in a kiss that was open-mouthed and wet and tasted of brandy. John stood, pulling Tom after him by their clasped hands. “Come to bed with me,” Grey whispered.

They dragged each other’s shirts over their heads, tossing them over the back of one of the chairs, coming back together again as if magnetized. Tom’s kisses were enthusiastic and hungry, carrying with them years of wanting. John recognized the feeling. The carefully contained desire set loose by a desperate need for connection, to find pleasure in the body of the other, unfettered at last by the right circumstances and recklessness. 

“May I take your breeches off, Tom?” Grey asked, mouthing along Tom’s jaw.

He nodded. “I reckon you had better, me lord,” he answered, his fingers digging hard into Grey’s arms. 

Grey made quick work of Tom’s flies and slid one hand under the fabric, cupping his hand over Tom’s hard cock and squeezing gently. “Please,” Grey said, nibbling at Tom’s lower lip. “You should call me John. We’re equals in this.”

Gasping sharply at his touch, Tom unfastened Grey’s flies and shoved his breeches over his hips. He shook his head. “No, I like to call you me lord.” His slender hand closed around Grey’s prick. “Because I like that you are mine,” Tom whispered, wrapping his arms around John’s middle and sucking playfully at the flesh of John’s throat. 

“Sweet Jesus, Tom,” Grey murmured, twisting the fingers of one hand into Tom’s hair. “You can call me anything you like, as long as you say it like that.” He felt the sharp scrape of teeth and Grey closed his fist in Tom’s hair, pulling him away. “Bed,” he said. “Now.”

Tom flashed an impish grin and shoved John, already unsteady on his feet from the brandy, to flop unceremoniously onto the turned-down bed. Tom climbed astride him, kissing his way from John’s bare hip, up his scarred torso, to finish at his lips. Grey rolled them over and loomed over Tom, bracing himself on one forearm as he dipped his tongue into his lover’s mouth.

 _Lover? Is that what this was?_ They had danced around this for some time. At least a year, possibly more. For now, at least, _lovers_ would do. 

Grey caressed Tom’s hip, ran his hand under him and teased at the cleft of his arse with his fingertips. “May I make you feel good, Tom?” A shallow push of his hips and his stiff cock slid against Tom’s thigh, leaving a moist trail in his wake. Grey teased at Tom’s ear with his mouth, flicking his tongue just along the delicate skin. “I would very much like to fuck you, if you’ll have me.”

Tom spread his legs, nodding. “Please, me lord,” he whimpered. “Please. I want to feel you inside me. I want to be good for you.” Tom wrapped his slender hand around Grey’s prick again, stroking firmly, slowly, just right.

John groaned with pleasure. “Christ, you beg so pretty for me. Don’t. Move,” he said, punctuating the order with kisses. 

Head swimming, it was slightly more challenging than normal to fumble the little bottle of oil from his bedside table. But he returned triumphant and coated his fingers liberally, gently massaging Tom’s entrance with his slick middle finger. Grey peppered his mouth, throat, shoulder with kisses, stroking his hair with his other hand. “Are you ready?"

Tom nodded again. “Yes. Yes, please.” He gasped and let out a breathy moan when Grey breached him with one finger. He lost himself in the tender ritual of gentling Tom open for him, of easing his fingers in and out of him-- _his lover_. Of drawing more of those beautiful sighs and gasps from his lips until his body grew pliant, slackening in all the right places, tightening in others. Tom’s hard cock was leaking against his stomach, twitching whenever Grey moved his fingers just so.

“Please, me lord,” Tom begged. “I want you, please, I’m ready.” 

Grey silenced him with a kiss. “As you wish, Tom.” He slicked his cock with more of the oil and slid inside, Tom’s body admitting him easily now. John found a gentle rhythm to start, delighting in the sounds his lover made, pure, sincere, passionate. It was warmth between them, heat inside of them, delicious connection. Electric. 

“Talk to me,” Grey whispered, gradually picking up the pace. “Tell me what you need, how it feels.”

Tom’s eyes settled on Grey’s, hazy with pleasure and wide open to him. “It feels--ah--feels like I’m going to fall apart at the seams.” His moans came more desperately now, urgent. “Could I have your hand? I don’t--God--don’t want it to end but... Please. So close.”

“Jesus, Tom, of course,” Grey said, and closed his slick fist around Tom’s prick, pumping it in time with the rhythm of his hips. John lost himself in a delirious kind of madness, all sensation and pleasure and the feel of the solid body beneath him, around him.

Tom’s eyes actually rolled back in his head, and he spilled into Grey’s hand and between them, his arse squeezing John, drawing out his own release in a rush. Tom dug his fingers into Grey’s shoulders, clung to him, holding him close and riding it out. John trembled, slowing to an eventual stop, savoring a few final moments of Tom’s rapt body. 

“Oh, me lord, good, so good,” Tom murmured into John’s ear, running his hands in wide circles all over his back.

Grey kissed him with a drowsy passion, catching his breath through his nose and delighting in the scent of each other. He eased himself out of Tom, collapsing on his side next to his lover. Yes, that did fit, for this. Grey wrapped his arms tight around Tom and dragged him flush against him, chest to chest, hot skin moist with sweat and seed. He yawned into his pillow, sleep pulling him in. “Thank you,” he murmured, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. “For trusting me. For always being there. For being my Tom.”

Tom tangled their legs together and settled in with a decadently sated sigh. “It’s my pleasure, me lord. Always.”


End file.
